victory at last

Round Two with the DMV. I drove out to Front Royal's Water Street DMV office with a revised lease agreement and my other paperwork, including a second proof of residence. Got there much earlier today; even though I didn't have an appointment, I was there before 8:15 a.m. I saw something I hadn't seen last time: the line to enter was divided into "appointment" and "non-appointment." I slotted into the non-appointment line, and being the only person there, I walked up to the reception window (different from the Window 1 that I went to yesterday) and handed my papers over to a different, skeptical-looking lady. I started trying to explain the history of the lease agreement's changes, and she held up her hand: "Stop. Just let me look through this." And she studiously flipped through the pages, another lawyer-in-the-making, as I stood silently by. I noticed a sign warning that threatening or speaking abusively to employees would be grounds for expulsion and maximal prosecution, so there went my chance to call the lady a dumb bitch. She took the lease agreement to a back room with her as I stood there; I vaguely heard some murmured conversation. When she came back, the lease agreement seemed to be in order, but she noted a problem with my other proof of residence: "The back page doesn't match the front page." I was startled, so I took the pages and looked more closely at them. Sure enough, the front page of the BochaSweet order form was there, but Page 2 was from a totally different printout (i.e., the DMV address page, which had been rejected yesterday because I was the one who had made the address update). Damn. So that was my fuck-up, bringing the wrong page. What a wasted trip. Turning a bit less frosty, the lady asked me whether I was staying at the new address yet. I said that would happen in a few days, but I was based in Manassas for now. "Manassas?" she said. "Why would you drive all the way out here? There's a DMV office in Fredericksburg and another in Manassas." I knew it would take too long to explain; I said nothing. The lady asked whether I'd brought any other proofs of residence, like a bank statement. I asked whether I could call up a statement on my phone, but my GlocalMe WiFi hotspot was again on the fritz, so I gave up, thanked her for her time, and went back out into the cold morning (freezing temps from 7:30 to 8:30 a.m.). I got into my rental and stewed a bit as I thought about what to do.

When I'd left my hotel for Front Royal, my Nissan Altima's touch-screen dashboard had lit up with a warning about tire pressure: the left-front tire had gone down to 28 psi while the rest of the tires were nominal at anywhere from 33 to 35 psi. So I determined that I should see a car shop about that. After the failed DMV session, I started up the car, and it occurred to me that I also needed to do one more Walmart errand and grab a multi-visit pass for Shenandoah National Park since I was already in town. So, with one car tire slightly deflated (Brits write tyre and kerb where Yanks write tire and curb*), I drove up the local hill to Walmart, got my necessities and, having spotted an Enterprise Rent-a-Car office on the way to Walmart, I hit Enterprise on the way back, figuring they'd have a garage and facilities to look at cars with problems. I went into the office, told a young staffer my car-tire problem (these days, staffers are all young to this old man), and he looked at it, taking my key and driving the car over to a garage. A few minutes later, he came back and reported no leakage in the tire, and that the tire ended up not needing much air. I hope that's the last dashboard warning I see. With that, I started to leave Fredericksburg to go back to Manassas.

Mike had made a suggestion regarding the second proof of residence: get a bank statement. That would undoubtedly be better than a BochaSweet receipt. I knew there was a PNC Bank on the way to the Manassas Walmart (stay with me: I had just visited the Front Royal Walmart this morning since I was in Front Royal, but I'd already been to the Manassas Walmart several times for salads, meats, and medical items). So since the PNC Bank branch in Manassas was down the street from my hotel, I headed to the bank. At the branch, I had to wait a few minutes to be helped; a nice woman of South Asian extraction was very solicitous; she took my ID, made me sign a form, and printed out a statement. I asked her how far away the Manassas DMV office was; she had no clue. She asked whether I was new to the area; I could have asked her the same question. As it turns out, I looked on Google Maps and saw the DMV branch was barely a mile away. I dropped my Walmart-errand stuff off at the hotel, had a quick session on the pot, then started out again, proper paperwork in hand. The DMV office was indeed only 0.7 miles away. I mumbled aloud to myself that I probably could've walked. The office is basically "behind" the hotel, however you reckon "behind."

Once inside this office, I saw there was the same "appointments/no appointments" line structure; I went into the "no appointments" line. People around me were speaking Spanish, Middle Eastern languages, Hindi, and whatever else was swirling about. The polyglot ambiance left me feeling as if I were in the Star Wars cantina. When my turn came, I tried a different tack, saying only what was necessary and revealing nothing else about my situation. I think part of the awkwardness and standoffishness at Front Royal had stemmed from my being too frank. Better just to be reticent, and reticent I was. The lady at reception looked over my paperwork and gave me the form for both license-renewal and the acquisition of the REAL ID. Even though a lot of people were taking numbers, I was told to go sit in a particular row of chairs in front of a particular row of booths, and that someone would be along to guide me further. I probably had to wait about twenty minutes after filling out my form. As it turned out, an officious-looking man and woman were both hawkishly watching as we supplicants to the priesthood of REAL ID filled the chairs; they called us up individually when the relevant booths opened up. I confess that I found this to be an abysmally stupid system. If you've got take-a-number already in place, then let us just take a goddamn number and wait our turn. Why burden staffers with the silly and tedious job of babysitting and nursemaiding us? Anyway, the wait itself wasn't painful; my frustration at the inefficient system was far worse. Twenty minutes came and went; then I got called up to a booth. Thank Cthulhu.

My staffer was a short, Indian-looking man who resembled Dinesh D'Souza and politely took my paperwork, leading me through the process of getting a new license and a REAL ID (around May 7, REAL IDs will be required to travel by plane domestically; otherwise, you need a federal document like a passport**). This mostly involved him taking my paperwork, evaluating it, and typing a lot into his computer. My passport got scanned; I took a quick eye test with a mounted set of goggles at his booth, then I posed for a picture to be used on my next license. The man printed out a temporary driver's permit for me, stamped my current license as VOID (the word has been hole-punched into the license, which is now unusable), then handed everything but the application and relevant parts of the lease agreement back to me; I even got my bank statement back, plus a transaction receipt. $42 for the work.

So I now have a printed piece of paper to hand any police officer instead of my license should I get pulled over during the next couple of weeks. Drive carefully, Kevin. I did hit over 80 mph on certain parts of Route 66, a road that seductively invites speeding by people with a lead foot. Happier today than I'd been yesterday (when I was angry and stressed out), I lumbered out of the office, got into my rental with its newly filled left-front tire, and headed back onto 66 to visit my favorite Chinese restaurant, Young Chow, from back when I'd lived in Front Royal. There's a particular bad-for-you combination that I always get at Young Chow: fried dumplings, fried wontons, and crispy beef. If you've ever had the pleasure or horror of eating American-style Chinese food, you know that it usually comes slathered in a carb-heavy sauce with a cornstarch (that's cornflour to my UK readers) base. I was so looking forward to this. I took the exit to leave 66 and go to Haymarket, the town where Young Chow resided. I forgot the last few turns, but luckily, my portable WiFi hotspot was working at that moment, so I was able to use Google Maps to navigate the final mile or so. With anticipatory satisfaction, I lumbered into the restaurant and saw the same old Chinese lady who'd run the place when I'd last seen her twelve or so years earlier. She didn't recognize me, of course, but I do wonder whether she recognized my order: with only one or two exceptions over the course of almost three years (2010-2013), I had visited every few weeks and ordered the exact same thing.

When the food came out, I was ecstatic despite knowing what it would do to my system. This close to my doctor's appointment in May, it's really not a good idea for me to be carbing up this heavily. I'm going to get a talking-to about my A1c at Samsung Hospital in May, and another talking-to when I visit again in July. Here are some pics of today's decadent lunch:

establishing shot

Budai (Chn.) or Podae (Kor.) sunim

I think the characters are pronounced ju gi in Korean. The gi (to record, to note) is the same gi found in girok, a record of something; or gi-il, a day to commemorate a person's death, as I do every year on this blog for Mom. The ju seems to have an adverbial function meaning something like "widely, evenly, or all over." Together, I have no clue what the characters are supposed to mean. ChatGPT had some insights.

ChatGPT (always take with a big grain of salt):

The Chinese characters "周記" (Zhōu jì in Mandarin, 주기 in Korean) have a straightforward meaning:

周 (Zhōu, 주) – This can be a surname (Zhou in Chinese, Joo in Korean) or mean "week" or "cycle" in other contexts.
記 (Jì, 기) – This means "record," "memoir," or "chronicle."

Meaning of "周記"

When used as a name, "周記" typically means "Zhou’s Record" or "Zhou’s Chronicle." In a business or restaurant name, it often conveys the idea of "Zhou’s brand" or "Zhou’s signature store."

Significance for a Restaurant Name

Common in Chinese-speaking regions – Many traditional Chinese restaurants, particularly those serving Cantonese, Taiwanese, or Hong Kong cuisine, use "X記" ([Surname] 記) as their name format.
Implies an established reputation – It gives off an old-school, trustworthy feel, as if the restaurant has a history and legacy.
Feels personal and authentic – It suggests a family-owned business or a restaurant known for a specific specialty passed down through generations.

Examples of Other Restaurants with "X記" Names

陳記 (Chén jì) → "Chen’s Brand"
林記 (Lín jì) → "Lin’s Store"
楊記 (Yáng jì) → "Yang’s Signature"

If you saw "周記" as a restaurant name, it’s likely a place specializing in traditional dishes, possibly Chinese BBQ, congee, or noodle soups, depending on the regional cuisine.

You're exactly right that "Chow" in "Young Chow" likely corresponds to 周 (Zhōu) in 周記. "Chow" is a common Romanization of 周, which is a common Chinese surname (Zhou in pinyin, Joo in Korean).

As for 記, it doesn’t directly translate to "Place," but it serves a similar function in restaurant naming. "周記" in this case can be understood as "Chow’s establishment" or "Chow’s brand," which could explain why the English name "Young Chow" doesn’t explicitly include it.

So, 周記 ≈ Chow’s (Restaurant/Brand/Shop) rather than "Young Chow" being a literal translation. The "Young" part is a bit unclear—it might be a stylistic choice, a reference to a location, or even an anglicized form of another Chinese word (e.g., 永, meaning "forever" or "eternal").

So, while 周記 ≠ Young Chow word-for-word, the 周 (Chow) part corresponds, and 記 adds a traditional touch to the restaurant's branding.

There's even a picture of the crispy beef. Only one place I can think of has a better version of this dish. I think it used to be billed as George Bush Sr.'s favorite Virginia Chinese resto. Pretty sure I've eaten there with Mike, in the distant past, as well as alone.

 

staring at the fried wontons and fried dumplings

the standard zodiac placemat found in many Chinese restos in the US

I'm 1969, so yes, I'm the Cock.

Beautiful, beautiful fried wontons, which came out first.

pan-fried dumplings made with that thick Chinese dumpling skin

Don't forget the one non-cornstarchy sauce for the dumplings!

Last but not least: the crispy beef. I even ate the onions.

I suppose that's true in a manner of speaking. Or from a certain point of view.
(Doesn't the word "dog" look like three Os strung together?)

The food was great. There's been no drop in quality over the past twelve years. I wonder if they have the same chef. It could be a trainee who hews close to the original standards. Whatever the case, the food rocked, and I was in crispy, dumpling-shaped heaven.

With DMV and Chinese food out of the way, it's time to repent and do some walking. I'm in my hotel a few more days (until April 4, MLK's assassination day—talk about a major gi-il), then I'll spend the rest of my time with Mike's family (now, technically, my residence as well!) until I go back to Korea on April 13. I'll turn in my Nissan Altima on the 12th, with a full tank of gas per Enterprise's request.

Other remarks about today: there was a Sheetz eatery/convenience store across the street from Young Chow. I visited it to get some Cherry Coke Zero, but I also saw a new Dr. Pepper flavor: Blackberry Dr. Pepper. Curious, I bought it despite the sugariness, figuring in for a penny, in for a pound given the carb self-immolation I'd just participated in. I drank it as I drove back to my hotel, and I must say... I was thoroughly disappointed. The blackberry taste utterly dominated; I couldn't taste any Dr. Pepper through all of that artificial flavor. Never again. Am I getting finicky in my old age? Probably not finicky enough.

So that's how today went. Going from the racially undiverse and always-suspicious Front Royal DMV office to the chaotically inefficient yet racially diverse and friendlier Manassas DMV office was the thing to do to get things done. I also learned a valuable moral lesson: just as they say you should never talk to the police, just say only what is minimally relevant when talking to the DMV. The staffers are probably trained to look askance at you if you seem to be revealing too much, and I guess my original over-explanation of my situation to the Front Royal staffer prejudiced her against me. At Manassas, I gave no indication that I was in America only temporarily; I merely said, "This is my new residence. I want to renew my driver's license and get a REAL ID." And there were no questions.

It's now a waiting game. The new license will be mailed to my new residence (Mike's house in Fredericksburg, VA). Will it get there before I leave? If it doesn't, Mike will mail it to my address in Seoul, and I'll pay the postage via PayPal or whatever. Boy, I'm glad that's done. That whole thing was stressful, with lots of false starts. But it got done.

__________

*Brits write curb in contexts where they're not talking about raised sidewalk edges, e.g., Curb Your Enthusiasm, not Kerb Your Enthusiasm.

**Whether this solves any of America's current ID-related problems is an open question. I have a feeling that, where it counts—e.g., voting—nothing much will change as long as people flout and ignore the law without consequences. But maybe I'll be proved wrong. I hope so.